


His Lark

by WhoopsISpilledTheGay



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Dead Jaskier | Dandelion, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion reincarnates as a lark, M/M, One Shot, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsISpilledTheGay/pseuds/WhoopsISpilledTheGay
Summary: It had been nearly a decade since Dandelion’s death.Geralt is followed by a singing lark.(Short Story / One-Shot)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 136





	His Lark

It had been nearly a decade since Dandelion’s death.  
  
  
The passing of the world-renowned poet and Viscount had stirred a craze among the general populace of Novigrad and Velen. Auctions, book reproductions, constant memorials, and even celebrations on his birth date were held in big cities and small towns alike. Every artwork, every original draft, every private journal or autographed scroll was sold to some outrageously wealthy noble. Every minute of his life was recounted. A small museum was even opened in the back of the Chameleon, his cabaret project that he lovingly managed to the end of his days. Everyone had something physical on the wall of their home to remember him by.  
  
  
Everyone except for Geralt.  
  
  
Geralt of Rivia, the witcher that Dandelion had sung for and written for since the young age of eighteen, was left out of the celebrations. Partial self-inflicted distancing and partial prejudiced townsfolk were the reason. They blocked him out of the auction for Dandelion’s travel notebook, they barred him from taking over the Chameleon management even if the bard had promised the position to him every time they shared a drink, they bought up all the limited songbook prints before he could even ride back into town.  
  
  
He accepted it. He had no other choice. Dandelion wouldn’t want him turning to violence for something as simple as a drafting page. Even if that single page would have saved him from years of heartbreak.  
  
  
Geralt went back into his work, clearing up contracts and killing to help numb the feelings surfacing inside him. For a decade, an entire sum of ten years, he did this. The number of times he almost bled to death without a care in the world was staggering compared to the months that had passed since he heard the news. His reasoning was old age rendering him sloppy and uncaring. It was obvious that wasn’t the case.  
  
  
One morning, riding Roach in the silence of a grove, he heard the song of a bird nearby. Not unusual. It only became irking when the same song, the same call, followed him out of the grove. Into the forest, out to the plains, over the river bridge and through the poverty-stricken village. That same bird followed.  
  
  
He noticed it once he settled down to camp, starting a fire and beginning to cook his dinner when out of the darkness the song rang once more. That was unusual. It was dark out; birds should be silent. And yet, this one wasn’t. In fact, the song only grew louder and louder until its owner flew into sight.  
  
  
Perched on a gnarled tree root was a lark. The small brown speckled bird was cocking its head to the witcher, calling out once more. He disregarded it.  
  
  
He did this for a week. Disregarding every call, every chirp, every song sung in his ear as the same lark swooped by Roach. The week turned into two, the two turned to a month. He had started offering worms and berries, even seeds he had found along the way to the little lark. It took them happily, scarfing them down before continuing to chirp.  
  
  
Never once did he question why it felt right, or why he was gradually becoming his old self. Geralt got up to no good once more, visiting old friends just to do their dirty work or solve mysteries, taking out bandits on the road for the hell of it, helping old ladies gather flowers for their shrines to deities and gods. He was slowly but surely healing. The lark was always by his side.  
  
  
Some days he would hear the bird sing a few notes in a pattern familiar to him. He didn’t know why, nor did he question how those few melodies washed up memories from decades beforehand. It was merely a coincidence. Sometimes he hummed or whistled melodies back to the lark. They would have meaningless conversations of notes and song.  
  
  
One afternoon, on his hunt for a wraith that was terrorizing the small village at the edge of a hill, Geralt was attacked. He was beaten bloody, weapons stolen, and stomach carved up, guts hanging out of him. By what, he didn’t know. The only thing he could process was the familiar call of a lark above him, sounding frantic and lively. He tried to hum out a response, only to fail.  
  
  
This was it, and it had been coming for a while. Laying his head down in the grass, tuning out the whistle and chirping of the animal soaring above him, he closed his eyes.  
  
  
  
The next time he woke, he was greeted with the face of his best friend. 

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes i get possessed to write things and then people yell at me


End file.
